Just a Little
by harvincy
Summary: PWP. Stiles disobeys his alpha.


Of course I hear the water shut off, followed by the sounds of wet feet slipping across the tile before a body slams into the bathroom door.

If I cared, I'd suppress a roll of my eyes. But I don't care. And he knows that.

I'm getting anxious, however— he's been in the bathroom but out of the shower for too long. And now... what is that? A razor? What is he shaving... It'd better be a certain lower region or we're going to have problems.

He knows better than to touch his hair.

I hear him stumbling out of the bathroom and down the hall to the bedroom. Always stumbling, it seems. Throws the door open, slams it behind him. He's got two towels this time— one around his waist and one wrapped turban-style on his head to keep his growing locks form flinging water all over the room.

I smile to myself at the thought of what's under the towel. Both of them.

He's been growing his hair for me; no, he didn't have a say in it. But I needed something to grip during our trysts.

I'm reclined on the bed, ignoring him as I'm want to do, though I glimpse up only slightly from my book to spare a glance as he bends over his dresser, hunting for clean jeans (boxers are something else I've made him give up).

Something catches my eyes, however, and I already know what it is. There's a slight rippling boil through my blood and I squeeze my eyes shut quickly, fighting back the beast.

"Stiles."

The words are harsher than I had intended, causing him to jump and whip around, gripping the dresser behind him. "Y-yes?"

"There's pieces of hair on your back. Long Pieces."

A flush covers his torso and I catch the sped-up beats of his heart, see the sweat mixing with the droplets still clinging to his body.

"Take the towel off your head."

"Derek... Derek, listen—"

"Take. The towel. Off."

I can hear the gears of his mind twisting, turning, crunching, needing to land on some idea to distract me.

He pushes away from the chest-of-drawers with feigned confidence, slightly shaky hands resting on the towel hung on his hips. "What if I take _**this**_towel off? Hm?" He pulls the material form his waist, lets it fall, holds his breath.

Now, far be it from me to dismiss such a grand opportunity to throw the boy to the bed and release a little animalistic urge. Before he can regret his actions, I'm on him, pinning him to the wall by his shoulders.

"D-Derek, don't do anything stu—"

I nuzzle his neck, licking a trail from the base to his ear, nipping the lobe. "Stiles," I murmur, letting that huskiness that makes him quiver take over my tone, "why won't you remove the towel from your head?"

He's shivering now. Good.

"I, well, you know my hair's wet, and, uh, it's just that the blow-dryer's broke 'cause I dropped it in the toilet, so..."

"I'm counting to three. If you don't remove it by the time I'm finished, my fangs are coming out— and not in the way you like. One..."

That's all it takes. He knows better than to push me too far. The soaked towel falls from his head to the floor, his gaze following it.

A low growl rips from me at the sight: Short hair. He's practically buzzed-cut it. But he knows what he did and it sounds as if his heart's about to rip through his chest and land at my feet.

"Derek, don't flip out but I never wear my hair that long and my dad was asking about it and even Scott was asking about it and—"

My fingers wrap around his neck, squeezing slightly. "I could give them more reasons to ask questions... Bruises on your neck. Bite marks on your legs. Claw marks down your back."

He whimpers. Beautiful.

I push away from him now, holding his gaze as I strip myself and cross back to the bed and stretch out, making myself comfortable and propping up the pillows behind my head, settling myself down into the sheets. "You're going to have to ride me," I state, "seeing as I have nothing to grip now."

His adam's apple bobs with a gulp of anxiousness. But I know he wants it, craves it. "You're not angry?"

"I'll deal with your little mistake later. Get up here."

He's good. Obedient. Crawling onto the mattress, he hovers a bit, his lips slowly forming an 'O' as he lowers his mouth almost hesitantly to my erection.

But I'll have none of that. "Not right now, but I appreciate the thought."

"Not right— Then what?" I give him a second. "Oh..."

"It's not hard to figure out, Stiles." Reaching over into the nightstand, I grab the familiar tube of jelly and hand it to the still shivering boy. "Prep yourself."

I love the control I seem to have over him. Whether it be from reverential fear or _**just**_ fear in it's basic form, I don't care. What's keeping my attention now is Stiles reaching a now-slick hand behind him as he leans over me, his eyes squinting at the first feelings of a finger pushing past the tight ring of muscle.

My cock jumps at the thought of what's mere moments away and I can't stop my tongue from licking lips as I watch Stiles finger himself.

"Feels good?"

He nods, refuses to open his eyes. I can't have that.

"Look at me."

He doesn't.

"_**Look at me**_."

His eyes snap open and I can't stop the edges up my lips from curling up. There's an almost pained look etching itself into his features, but I know better, know it's want.

"I think you're ready..." Gripping his hips so that my nails just break his skin, I guide him down onto my waiting cock, which I swear is glistening at its tip. "Good?"

He finds the audacity to actually smirk, "You're asking?"

No. No, of course I'm not. And I certainly can't let him think I am. I slam him down onto me, his opening forced to stretch in a mere second as he rears back and shouts from the intrusion.

"Dammit Derek!"

I yank his lips to mine, forcing any more protests to get lost amidst a flurry of teeth and tongue and fang and heat, only pulling away to growl, "Fucking ride, Stiles."

And he does. He clenches around my shift and twists his hips the way I like and I can't help that my head falls back completely into the pillow, letting that heat envelope me.

Hands land on my chest as he uses the position for leverage to gain speed, those moans I've grown to love spilling from him and engulfing me, forcing a groan of my own to infiltrate the air around us.

It's almost perfect. But I'd never tell him that.

Not now.

I always lose track of time with him. Normally I'd have him flipped over, pounding into him from behind as he begs me to go harder, faster, just like that. But not this time. He could have been riding me for hours, for minutes, for seconds, but I have no idea.

I just know that when he tenses and that heat tightens almost unbearably around my cock, I rear back as far as I can as Stiles' seed lands on his chest and my torso.

His body's almost limp, but I need just a few more thrusts before I can feel myself spill into him, dripping down onto my own thighs.

And it's... nice, I suppose. Not like the heated bouts I'm used to with him.

He's pulled himself from me, hugging one side of the bed, as if he's afraid to lay to close to me. There's another tugging at my lips as I grab tissues from his nightstand, attempting to clean us up the best I can.

And maybe I place a kiss on his flush lips.

Maybe I care. A little.

* * *

[[Yeah, I'm officially in love with this pairing. More to come :) Maybe even a multi-chap fic]]


End file.
